


A Light Troubled by Smoke

by SincereMercy



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Guns, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23146522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincereMercy/pseuds/SincereMercy
Summary: Enjolras is a harsh taskmaster, and Combeferre enjoys shooting guns, except for the part where he has to shoot guns.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20
Collections: Les Misérables Poisson d'Avril





	A Light Troubled by Smoke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [everyonewasabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/everyonewasabird/gifts).



> This is an "April Fool's Day" treat for the prompt: Character(s) caught in a time loop.  
> As is custom, this is definitely not what was asked for ...

“Prime and load.”

Combeferre brings his musket to priming position and draws a cartridge from his cartridge box, tearing open the tail of it with his teeth. He’s a little too hasty; there is a sharp, bitter taste in his mouth as he pulls the hammer to half cock and loads the pan. He lowers the gun to pour the rest of the powder down the barrel and follows suit with the ball. After ramming the ball and wadding down and replacing the ramrod, he cocks the weapon and brings it to firing position. He steals a glance to his side and notices Feuilly and Courfeyrac still struggling with their rods, unable to help a sudden feeling of satisfaction at being the first finished.

He is still slightly distracted when Feuilly has his gun readied.

“Fire!”

Combeferre pulls the trigger, grimacing as the powder ignites and his vision is obscured by a puff of smoke.

As soon as he can, he turns to look at Enjolras, who is holding his pocket watch in hand and looking at them with a stern expression on his face.

“You are too slow. Again. And Combeferre—fire from your right shoulder, for now.”

He feels a sting of childish disappointment to earn Enjolras’s correction for his position, rather than recognition for his speed, but he obeys.

“Prime and load.”

He does it again, readying the musket onto his right shoulder this time. Once more he holds his weapon in place for several seconds before he hears the order to _fire!_ He keeps both eyes open and looks again to Enjolras before assessing his effect on his target.

But he is shaking his head. “Thirty seconds. Do it again, and faster this time. Feuilly, don’t think so much. Reload.”

The grit of the gunpowder in his mouth feels deeply unpleasant, but he goes through his motions with the next already in mind, sure that this time he will please Enjolras.

“Hold. Courfeyrac, you have left your ramrod in the muzzle of your gun.” Several more precious seconds pass before they get the order to fire. Combeferre is distracted by imagining whether, with the addition of rifling, a weapon might be equipped to fire a rod—or, perhaps more practically, a harpoon—without the pressure on the barrel threatening to make it explode.

When he turns to Enjolras this time, there is a frown directed at him specifically. Combeferre frowns back.

“No; only you, Combeferre—reload and fire at will.”

Of course, he can feel all eyes on him at once, and his heart rate picks up. However dear a friend he is, it is still nerve-wracking to be singled out by Enjolras, although Combeferre tells himself that perhaps Enjolras has it in his mind to use him as an example.

Cartridge, prime, load, ram, ready, fire. Despite his nerves, his hands remain steady and his time is, he is sure, no more than 23 seconds. He turns to look at Enjolras as soon as he pulls the trigger.

“How do you suppose you did?” Enjolras asks.

“Closer to 20 seconds than 30; nearly three shots per minute. That is good, is it not?”

“It does not matter if you can fire five shots per minute if none of them hit their target. You are missing the point of our exercise.” The reproachful look on Enjolras’s face only increases Combeferre’s indignation, though it rises mostly from the embarrassment of being called out and realizing Enjolras is right.

“I am less accurate firing from my right,” he protests, “as you have told me to do.” They both know that is not the issue, but Enjolras does not argue with him.

“Then you need more practice. Try closing your left eye this time. All three of you, reload and fire at will.”

Though his target is made of wood, there is a sinking feeling in Combeferre’s chest when he watches fragments of it shatter now that his aim is true.

“A little better. Again.”

He imagines bone being blown apart in the same way.

“Again.”

He wonders if, when the time comes, he will remember this and imagine the bodies of men to be only wood, in turn.

“Again.”

He stops wondering.

“Again.”

The air is now so thick with smoke that he can scarcely see his target at all, no matter the shoulder he is firing from.

 _“Again_.”

Some time later, Combeferre reaches into his cartridge box to reload again and finds it empty. For a moment he does not understand. He stares blankly at his empty hand until he feels the clap of Enjolras’s hand on his shoulder.

“More than thrice a minute; well done, Combeferre, you are nearly as fast as I am.” Enjolras has a little smile on his face, but Combeferre’s stomach clenches with regret. It is the praise he’d wanted earlier, but it no longer cheers him. The press of Enjolras’s hand lingers, though, and there is something more comforting in the sight of his eyes, which are bluer and clearer than the smoke-covered sky.

Then he steps away.

Combeferre watches his exchange with Courfeyrac, who is practically bounding with excitement and eager to discuss when and how they might make more cartridges. Feuilly, too, looks pleased with himself, and Enjolras with them both.

“We will drill again next week,” says Enjolras, and Courfeyrac is delighted.

Combeferre thinks, not for the first time, how different he is from his friends.

He will join them all the same.


End file.
